


Ice Packs and Warm Scarves

by grantaireible



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, Prompt Fill, Protective Enjolras, Smitten Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grantaireible/pseuds/grantaireible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The giggling, snorting, and chortling finally dies down as the other man brings his sandwich to his lips, the BLT’s ‘awesomefuckingness’ clearly outweighing the supposed hilarity of the situation. Which is not funny. At all.</p><p>“It really is, though,” Courfeyrac manages to push the words past all the bacon, lettuce, and tomato so that they spill from his lips in the same way the juice from the tomato does and dribbles down onto his chin. Grantaire hopes he chokes on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Packs and Warm Scarves

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:
> 
> [11/6/14 8:22:34 PM] Marius: r gets hurt somewhere, probably falling down the stairs, and has to wear a giant knee brace
> 
> [11/6/14 8:22:45 PM] Marius: and enj keeps doting and pulling out chairs and stuff
> 
> [11/6/14 8:22:51 PM] Marius: meanwhile R is Very Confused
> 
> -
> 
> A/N: So this is for Katecat, my lil nugget of a lil sister, aka my Marius. Some details were altered, I hope that's okay! Turned out to be just under 2k words

“It’s not fucking funny, Courfeyrac.”

“Courfeyrac.”

“…  _Courfeyrac._ ”

“Courf!”

The giggling, snorting, and chortling finally dies down as the other man brings his sandwich to his lips, the BLT’s ‘awesomefuckingness’ clearly outweighing the supposed hilarity of the situation. Which is not funny. At all.

“It really is, though,” Courfeyrac manages to push the words past all the bacon, lettuce, and tomato so that they spill from his lips in the same way the juice from the tomato does and dribbles down onto his chin. Grantaire hopes he chokes on it.

He slams the car door closed after he’s settled into the passenger seat. “Fuck you, Courf. I called you for a ride to the meeting, not to have you patronize me.”

“Okay, fine, whatever.” Courfeyrac shifts gears, pulling out into the street, one hand on the wheel as he takes another bite. “You seriously can’t walk on it?”

“Courf, the Musain is twelve blocks from my apartment. You know I always ride my bike.”

“And you can’t do that now?”

Grantaire tugs at his curls with a huff of exasperation, “Are you serious right now?”

“What?” 

“I’m wearing a fucking knee brace and you think I could ride my bike even if my bike wasn’t totally fucked? I  _got hit by a car._  I sprained my knee  _yesterday_. I can barely walk on it right now.”

Courfeyrac balls up the flimsy paper his BLT had been wrapped in and throws it at Grantaire’s knee. “You’re lucky I even own a car.”

“This is a piece of shit, not a car. Don’t kid yourself.”

The sound of the smack he receives bounces off the windows.

 

-

 

The ice on the sidewalk was hard to navigate, Grantaire needing to grab onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder on more than one occasion, fingers digging into his friend’s sweater with a grip that may or may not have cut off blood circulation at the time. His shoulder seems fine now, however, as he pulls open the café’s door only to reveal–

A battlefield. That’s the only way Grantaire can describe it as he looks at the chairs and tables littered everywhere, the patrons of the Musain milling about as usual, weaving in and out of tables, drinks in hand. He can already feel his knee ache in protest. He steps inside, Courfeyrac stepping up behind him, the door clicking shut. He sighs.

But even as a sudden burst of the cold wintry air hits his back as someone else steps inside the building, Grantaire’s not so sure which makes him shudder: the wind, or the journey that lay before him from the door to his usual seat between Joly and Bossuet. 

Fuck.

He must look as distressed as his knee feels because soon someone was taking a hold of his elbow, gently but firmly tugging him along, moving chairs and nudging aside some of the empty tables as they go, easily navigating the way and guiding him through the crowd. It isn’t until a chair is pulled out for him that Grantaire takes the time to refocus his attention on who is helping him rather than on how not to trip up and sprain his  _other_  knee. But he only catches a shock of blond curls before steady hands are pushing at his shoulders, forcing him to sit, and then after a flurry of movement Grantaire is sitting with his jacket hanging over the back of his chair and a red scarf is wrapped around his bare neck.

He burrows into it without much thought, smelling something sweet like vanilla and cinnamon, and something stronger; something like aftershave.

And then Enjolras is gone, weaving his way between Marius and Bahorel to the front of their group – presumably to start the meeting – without a word.

Taking another deep breath in, Grantaire snaps his mouth shut, not having been aware that his lips had been parted in his surprise at all.

Brows knitted together, Grantaire’s mouth stays uncharacteristically shut for the duration of the meeting, choosing instead to take off his brace and knead at his knee, pointedly avoiding looking at Enjolras for the night, but enjoying the warmth of his scarf nonetheless. 

He forgets to give it back.

 

-

 

Two mornings later Enjolras shows up at his apartment. 

Grantaire didn’t even know Enjolras knew where he lived. 

“… Are you not going to let me in?” 

Grantaire snaps to attention, a blush blossoming over the height of his cheekbones as he stutters, “Y-Yeah, of course,” and steps aside. “Ignore the mess, I guess. I wasn’t expecting company.” 

“Not like you would’ve cleaned up even if you were.” But Grantaire’s not sure if that’s meant to insult him or if it’s just teasing –  _Does Enjolras even know how to tease people?_  – so he lets it slide, closing and locking his door as he watches Enjolras sweep past him and enter into the kitchen, setting down a bag –  _reduce, reuse, recycle!_ , it advertises across the front of the dingy cream canvas in bright green letters – Grantaire hadn’t noticed Enjolras had been carrying on the counter.

He doesn’t notice the look of concern that flashes across Enjolras’ face as he bends down to adjust his knee brace.

“Go sit on the couch,” Enjolras says, beginning to rummage through the bag, pulling out – okay, tomato and basil soup, crackers, ginger beer, actual beer, ice packs… heating pads? – the contents and placing them across the counter before taking the can of soup and turning to switch on the stove. 

Which, alright. Unfair. “Are you ordering me around in my own home?” 

Why the fuck does Enjolras know where Grantaire keeps his pots and pans and bowls and, “Go on, R, I’ll just get this going and then I’ll put a movie in for us,” Enjolras insists as he snatches the ice packs from the counter and tosses them in the freezer.

And because Grantaire’s really not sure how to fucking handle Enjolras milling about his kitchen and cooking soup for him and telling him what to do because it’s all so grotesquely  _domestic_  and  _weird_ , Grantaire does as he’s told. He makes sure to snag one of the beers first, though.

He could use a drink.

Or twelve.

 

-

 

Enjolras pauses the film just before Hercules cuts his way out of the snake-thing’s throat to replace the ice pack on Grantaire’s knee with a heating pad and Grantaire practically squawks. “Hey!”

Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s empty bowl before he goes to the kitchen to put the ice pack back in the freezer, dumping the dishes in the sink to be dealt with later. “What?”

“You can’t pause a movie in the middle of a life or death situation, Enjolras!”

Enjolras returns with two beers and Grantaire is a little terrified of how quickly he could get used to the way their fingers brush when they pass a bottle between them and he maybe forgets to breathe a little bit. “R, how many times have you seen this movie?”

“Not relevant.”

“Very relevant.”

“Not the point, though.” 

“R.” The tone is oddly serious and soft in a way that throws Grantaire off, and Grantaire can feel his hands start to tremble, his heart now beating at the heart rate of a mouse because he is very suddenly and very irrationally anxious. 

“Yeah?” 

“Stop pouting.” He deflates. He breathes. He toys with his knee brace to hide that his hands were ever shaking. He ignores the way Enjolras looks at him, choosing instead to watch Enjolras’ hands as he grabs the remote control and sets the movie back in motion. 

The slick sound of Hercules’ sword slicing through the monster’s flesh makes Enjolras grimace and Grantaire can’t help but to try to hide the fondness of his smile behind the lip of his bottle of beer.

 

-

 

It becomes an every-three-days thing until it becomes an every-other-day thing until it’s weird when they don’t see each other at least once a day, no matter the brevity of the visit. 

Grantaire’s still wearing the knee brace ninety percent of the time.

Enjolras still makes them soup.

Grantaire still makes them watch Disney films.

Enjolras finally gives in and makes burgers one night.

 

-

 

They’re watching the Hunchback of Notre Dame when it happens.

They way they circle each other is agonizingly slow. Everything always has been for them. A slow burn.

Grantaire’s not surprised when this is no different.

He’s got his legs draped over Enjolras’ lap, has had them resting there for a good hour now, as they wonder if Quasimodo will win the girl or if the hot soldier dude has it in the bag; though Enjolras insists that Esmeralda shouldn’t need to fall in love with anyone, she’s a strong character on her own, and he kneads his fingers into Grantaire’s bad knee – the brace on break for the evening – particularly viciously when Grantaire snorts at that.

Grantaire knees Enjolras’ stomach with his good leg in protest and Enjolras quickly rubs at the area he pressed too hard to soothe the pain away. His touches become increasingly gentle after that, massaging Grantaire’s bad knee almost absentmindedly as he focuses on the film. He’d said he’d never actually seen this one before. 

He looks so beautiful in the soft glow of the television that Grantaire thinks he might actually scream into the pillow currently cushioning his back.

Fuck.

Grantaire’s grip on the neck of his bottle tightens – ginger beer, this time, because Enjolras slowly started to switch out his actual beer with all the gingery goodness weeks ago. 

Enjolras is still beautiful and if Grantaire can’t look away, Enjolras is going to notice the staring soon. 

Shit.

And Frollo must have just done something particularly deplorable because suddenly Enjolras’ fingers are digging into Grantaire’s knee with no mercy and –  _“Ow, fuck, Enj!”_  – and Enjolras is looking at him, brows knitted together, blue eyes wide and apologetic as he quickly tries to rub the pain away and –   _“Shit, R, I’m sorry. Frollo’s just such an asshole, I’m sorry.”_ – and he’s grabbing the back of Grantaire’s neck, fingers threading through his dark curls like it’s just that easy, to pull him forward to kiss his temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is.

_It is._

And that has to be the most frustrating thing in the world at the moment because it’s  _so fucking natural_  that Enjolras doesn’t even pay any mind to it as he pulls away. He just keeps massaging at Grantaire’s knee and cursing Frollo under his breath and  _fuck no._

“Enjolras.”

“… Enj.”

“…  _Enjolras!_ ”

Because of course Enjolras is so wrapped up in the injustices of a fucking  _cartoon_  that it takes Grantaire three tries just to grab his attention, but he has it now, Enjolras squeezing his knee gently to assure him of this fact, blue eyes unwavering. “What? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you again?”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You fucking–”

“I didn’t mean to, I’ll stop, I’m sorry, I–” But Grantaire doesn’t want to hear apologies so he launches forward, grabbing Enjolras’ stupid,  _stupid_ face with both hands and kissing him despite the way his knee protests as it’s forced to bend a bit. Okay, maybe it’s screaming, but Grantaire doesn’t really care, there are more important things at hand.

When he pulls away all Enjolras has to say is, “Oh,” and, “Okay,” before he leans back in to capture Grantaire’s lips again.

 

-

 

Later when they’re tangled together on the couch and Grantaire is warm and sleepy and content and only half awake, having finally found a way to meld with Enjolras’ body without his knee throwing a fit, Enjolras finally notices the red scarf draped along the back of the couch.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi and give me prompts at my [tumblr](http://grantaireible.tumblr.com/)


End file.
